December Calendar
by I'm Nova
Summary: In answer to Hades Lord of the Dead's awesome challenge! Expect anything.
1. Chapter 1

A.N. : Hello! I enthusiastically present to the public my own take on Hades Lord of the Dead's December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness! I want to warn you that I am a firm believer of Johnlock, so romance between the two could worm his way in here sometimes (though I'll respect the rating, do not fear). Flames will be used to roast marshmallow. And now the first day, following the wonderful prompt "Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century!" issued by Poseidon - God of the Seas.

Scrapblog

a Doctor's life

p.s. Do NOT ask for prescriptions – I won't without visiting you in person, for both our safety.

Entry n. 221: An addition to family!

London, 21/3/ 218X

Dear readers,

I remember very well your kind words and advices when I told you I had bought a pup (Gladstone is growing up nicely, btw, will post photos soon-ish). Now I find myself proud owner – even if using the word feels, in this case, a little weird – of a (insert drums)...

**Latest Model Poly-Analysis Android. **

And I didn't even exhaust my (admittedly not big) funds for it! If can barely believe myself what happened, so I'll tell you – it will make a bit more sense by the end of it, hopefully. So...

I went as usual to the hospital, and Stamford (see entry 185 for the video with his karaoke performance) came to me laughing so much he was choking. I asked what happened, of course, and he said there had been a murderer and the victim had been just brought in. It happened, sometimes – we do collaborate with the police – but it was no reason to laugh, as I pointed out – a bit harshly, I fear.

"I know" he said "it's just...the police apparently saw fit to bring one of their own to help with the analysis, and...he just won't shut up. He said two of his colleagues were fucking behind their lovers' back, and that Dr. Smith become a gynaecologist to freely molest his patients – you know, we suspected already, but if they don't denounce him – and they don't 'cause they're ashamed – it's not like we could stop him, and then...by now he has probably stripped the whole staff of their secrets. You should see the people's faces when he does. Some could have had a stroke".

Well, I couldn't resist having a peek myself, could I? I had no dirty secrets – at least, no guilty ones – he could taunt me with, after all, and it was interesting, right?

At the end of my turn, I run to the morgue – hoping the show was not off by then – and I found something, allright...

There was a red-faced policewoman yelling her lungs out to a perfectly composed man – it looked like that, I swear – saying things like: "You dirty piece of scrap! Do your work only and shut up about the rest, will you?".

A long-suffering officer was there, clearly hoping this would end soon so he could go back home. When he saw me, he said : "Ok, Donovan, that's enough. Did you need something, doctor?".

Before I could answer, though, the object of her hate turned to me and spouted off my age, height, weight (I won't report it even under duress), half my medical records, where I was from (with a few miles' approximation), where I'd been in the last year (awful place that it was) and would probably continue if I didn't interrupt him exclaiming: "Amazing!". Believe me or not,_ that_ shut him up.

"That's unusual" he replied after a couple seconds.

"Mull it over" the officer said with a smirk. "If I only knew it was so easy! Thank you so very much, doctor...?" he asked, then.

"Watson" I answered "John Watson" ...so, ok, I've seen too much Bond, but how could I resist? "I'm happy I helped, really, but...do you mind enlightening me?" I inquired.

"Don't see why not. You've saved me from going crazy, after all. That's the problem with hitech, I guess...it does everything perfectly, but what you want it to do" the policeman agreed.

"Hitech?" I parroted.

"Latest model poly-analysis android. It looks perfectly like normal people, too, so we won't be spooked or something...it's not ugly, even. Oh well, the analysis part works well enough – you've seen for yourself – but the something- filter got damaged, as well as the core about robot laws – not my field, I fear. As a result, we have a piece of scrap who analyses anything he comes in contact with, not only what he's supposed to. She's the result. And we've been warned – though thank God it didn't happen yet – that it could attack people it deems an immediate threat...when he is not supposed to. He is not. That's where we Yarders are supposed to come in. Even if we wanted to use an android for the work we wouldn't use an analytic one – and we decide when and whom gets attacked, dammit!" he all but yelled.

"What will happen to it, then?" I investigated. It had me enthralled, I'll admit. His – its, sorry, had to go back and rewrite last sentence too, if I don't proofread expect a lot he/his about the android in the future - analysis felt like a magic show, and this officer was right, he [see? ;) ] was far from ugly – will post photo soon, I promise.

"Since the analysis side was so good, we thought we'd use it anyway, and terminate it the moment it hurt someone. To be honest, though, I was going to scrap it tomorrow. It got us all edgy, as you can see" the inspector confessed.

"Don't!" I pleaded. Yes, pleaded. You don't "scrap" masterpieces. You just _don't_.

"I'll keep it" I said suddenly.

"Doctor...have you heard me? It's a defective, possibly dangerous product – and forgive me, but I don't think you'll find it very useful. There are much simpler ways to obtain the data you'll need – ones which don't drive you bonkers – and..." the man objected.

"Come on" I insisted "you don't want him anyway! I don't find him defective, I find him wondrous, and I don't really believe he's dangerous. If I bring him home I highly doubt he'll deem the landlady a threat, after all. And – look, he's been quiet. I know I have no work for him, not worthy of him, but...perhaps you could phone me when you need him and I'll bring him wherever and...if I manage to keep him semi-quiet wouldn't it be good?".

"You're confusing it with a person, and that'll be your doom, trust me...but since you really really want it, and it's true it's a kind of pity to trash it, if you do manage to control it...we do collaborate with your institute" the inspector replied.

"Inspector Gregson! That's government property!" the wench – Donovan – interjected.

"Ah, but he'll bring it around for work, won't he? And you don't really want to have it around any longer than you need to" Gregson told her off.

"Of course I will. I swear! Then, can I bring him with me...if he's done with his work here?" I said.

"Please do" Gregson agreed with a sigh.

Since he was apparently still mulling over my anomaly, I turned to ask what I was supposed to do.

"S.H.2!" Gregson barked.

"Yes?" he answered.

"You're following Dr. Watson. Try not to drive him nuts, will you?" the inspector ordered.

He turned to me (I've decided it's too much of a hassle to go back and change it all back to it – deal with it) and quietly asked: "Where do we go?".

"Home" I said, on impulse...and here we are.


	2. Chapter 2

A.N. : Today's prompt comes from Sparky Dorian : Mary tries to distract Watson from his troubles by tricking him into going on a vacation.

As you could have deduced from yesterday's A.N., Mary Watson, née Morstan, is not my favourite character (though she's a sweetie, sorry, Mary). I hope I did her justice anyway. I am sorry I did such a sad one, but that's the only thing that popped in my head after reading the prompt. And it was blastly hard to write.

From Mary Watson's secret diary

23/12/1892

Dear diary,

I've been underhanded and I'm not really proud of how I acted, but I got what I wanted and I have high hopes for this Christmas.

Since last year, as you're well aware, my poor love has grown ten years older with grief. You know (only you) how jealous I've been of Mr. Holmes (so petty of me, alas! But such are loving hearts), but I'd rather have him back to sweep John away for a six-months undercover investigation (not that it ever happened) than see John like this. Since that's impossible, though, it was my duty – as well as my dearest wish – to do something to ease my husband's soul. I understood at once that I needed bring him away from London. It's become a poisonous place now – especially since it holds that man (was M. really only a man?) 's brother. I know I'm an only child, but it must take a special kind of brazen depravity to defend one's relative when he has destroyed so many people.

Anyway, I set up to search for a quiet place for us to rest and, hopefully, have a Christmas, if not joyous, as much serene as Heaven allows. That's not easy as it looks. No Scotland, since Watson's family was from there, and the last thing I want is to remember him of other people he lost. Holmes' cases brought them over half our beautiful nation, though, and escaping his remembrance (which I was, shamefully but out of good will, trying to do) heavily restricted my choices. Absolutely no Surrey, no Devon, and so on. For a moment I thought of running away to Ireland alltogether, but I decided against it. I wouldn't have John take a boat again if I could help it. In the end I opted for South Wales (around Cardiff). To my knowledge (and after a bit of rifling through John's notes, but that's justified) it should have been safe.

Then, I had to face a new challenge. John _needed _to get away from London, but he wouldn't do so willingly. There was no doubt about it. And believe me – between his bulldog and he, I have long determined John to be the most stubborn. So what could I do, but trick him into it? And it wasn't easy – my love has the natural acumen of a doctor plus his apprenticeship under Holmes.

I enlisted Mrs. Forrester's help, and she promptly wrote about her (unexistent) younger sister, recently married off in the Welsh countryside and worried about her child's health. Of course, there were many good doctors there, and it could be a false alarm – we do worry too much about our dears. But she (we named her Janet) was still very young, a bit inexperienced, perhaps, and sometimes it was a chore to even understand the local medic. Then Mrs. Forrester had mentioned how Mary had gotten married to a wonderful doctor, and since Christmas was coming up, couldn't they be convinced to come round? She would have a second opinion – one she would not need translation for – and Mary's company would be such a comfort. I fibbed that I knew her well enough and that we'd been somewhat friends, given our similar age and Mrs. Forrester's kindness. No matter his own wishes, John acceded to such a request. He really is the kindest, best man I will ever have the privilege to meet, even if I lived a thousand years.

So we came here – a little village like a painting – and I brought him to the cottage I had rented (which he didn't know: he does trust me a lot in handling the family finances). The house was empty, though: that couldn't escape him.

"What's happening, Mary?" he asked, clearly worried.

"Nothing's wrong, dear. I could have – lied – a little" I admitted. The snow falling heavily, which would soon keep us here, willing or not, gave me courage.

"You _tricked _me" John countered, looking so _wounded _I wondered if I'd not worsened the situation, as difficult as that would be.

"I love you, John" I answered – which did not answer nothing, I know, or everything, perhaps – "and you were working yourself steadily into a nervous collapse back home. I refuse to let it happen. We did come here for someone's health: yours. So you either give up and let me nurse you, spoil you and romance you until Twelfth Night, or...". I hesitated then. I had been bold enough, but I had no idea how to end it. Kidnapping him came to mind, but I knew better than to say it.

"As inarticulate as your threats are, my dear, I do bet the children obeyed you without question anyway" he jested. So I had told what he needed to hear, thank God.

"You aren't angry with me, then?" I inquired quietly.

"I would have objected your diagnosis if I could, but – here we are already, and who am I to object to romance, love?" John stated.

I have high hopes for this Christmas, indeed.

P.S. I hope no Welsh will take affront about Janet's request or her apparent ill-ease there. It's not the best fib, but I knew not how else to get the good doctor to move. And yes, there was a Torchwood shout-out there. ;-P


	3. Chapter 3

A.N. : Today's prompt is from Sparky Dorian again : The first time Holmes outsmarted Mycroft.

Thank you for issuing it. I do love Mycroft to pieces (perhaps because I have a seven years older brother too – neither of us is a genius, sadly).

Watson's notebook

03/12/1903

Today's definitely "dies albo signanda lapillo", for the both of us. Unfortunately, I will never be able to let the public know. If Holmes' reason to mark this day on the calendar would deserve to be printed – given how he becomes when jobless, the man needs all the advertising he can get – my own private reason of delight makes it unwise to do so. I could suppress the motivation of my happiness from the retelling, but...well, it comes from Holmes' words, and as self-effacing as I try to be, it isn't easy at all to cancel anything pertaining to Holmes without feeling as a failure of a biographer. And he criticizes my writings enough...

This afternoon, we went round to Diogenes club. Holmes had just solved a case who would have otherwise blown up, most literally, some crowns through Europe – ours included. After having a knighthood refused just last year, apparently our gracious queen felt my friend was better handled by his own kin, and so it came to Mycroft to hand out both the reward and the saved people's gratitude. I'm sure all parties involved (Mycroft included, even if he affected his brother bothered him, as usual) were much happier like that.

And since there were both Holmes, a window, and unsuspecting people in viewing range, a game began. I guess as children they would be easily amused, if that's all they needed to play. Not so much their parents, if they – or at least Sherlock – publicly doled out the knowledge gathered about the occasional guests (obviously designated victims) with the same nonchalance they sport now.

The chosen subject today was a young lad hurrying about the road, about twenty years old, with a fair complexion and fairer hair. I would have pitied him for being unknowingly x rayed if I didn't took delight in the brothers' game too.

"Well educated" the eldest started.

"His family is not as well off financially as in the past, though" Sherlock noted.

"Has a younger brother, poor soul" said Mycroft.

"Just healed from a quite nasty cold" the younger Holmes diagnosed, not bothering to acknowledge the barb.

"And he's going to a job interview; probably his first" Mycroft stated. Even I noticed the quick pace, the frequent checking his clock, and the primness of someone who wants to offer a good impression.

"He has it much worse, brother mine" my friend replied, with a smile "he's going to propose to someone. Notice how his hand won't leave the pocket? He keeps the ring there".

"I'm not sure I agree, Sherlock. He could keep a document related to the job offer there, and be worried he'll lose it. Would you be a dear and check it for us, Doctor?" Mycroft asked.

"Of course" I agreed, even if it would be uncomfortable. Going up to a stranger and spooking him by suddenly asking personal details is not really my style. But it was either I or Sherlock, and having the boy face an inquisitive Sherlock Holmes – without him having committed a crime to deserve it – would be sheer cruelty.

So I went, intercepted the youngster – who looked pretty surprised – and with the necessary mix of cheek and politeness inquired about his goal. I happened to mention a bet who hadn't taken place to excuse myself. It worked to make the young man answer without a fuss, and I was soon back with my answer.

"You were right, my friend: a miss Parker will soon have to make a choice" I announced.

"Très bien, petit frère" Mycroft praised, looking the tiniest bit surprised – for a Holmes. He really wasn't used to being in the wrong, was he?

"Ah, but this time I had the advantage, brother" Sherlock replied.

The eldest Holmes raised an highly questioning eyebrow for my sake only, I'm sure; remembering to include me even in the silent part of their conversation.

"For all your social graces, you didn't have the privilege to study a true romantic soul for a long time" Sherlock explained. His eyes shifted minutely, leaving none of us with a doubt about whom he was talking.

So, well...he's credited his victory over Mycroft to our long cohabitation and even used the word "privilege". Is it a surprise I've been this side of giddy (hopefully not too openly giddy – don't want to make people wonder) ever since?

So giddy I forgot to ask the explanation for all the rest of their deduction, now that I think about it! Oh, well...there'll be time for that.

P.S. : "Très bien, petit frère" is French for "Very good, little brother".

"Dies albo signanda lapillo" is Latin. It means : "a day to be marked in white on the calendar", because it brought happiness and/or success (conversely, you'd mark in black the bad days). Literally, "marked with a white stone"...but our calendars would make it hard to do so. ;-)

And yes, I know I cheated you of the explanations...but I found no place where they did not disrupt the flow.


	4. Chapter 4

A. N. : Today's prompt comes from Werepanther33 (love your name!) : Dreary London fog on Christmas Eve.

I'm not too sure of one word choice, but English is not my first language, so if I wrote nonsense do forgive me, please.

Matters of perspective

Christmas Eve is supposed to be a time for family and happiness. It is not so when you have no family anymore and your flatmate is a long since (definitely too long) unoccupied consulting detective. His current black mood was definitely infectious, and I found myself unable to do anything to lift it.

When Mrs. Hudson asked me for help, I was consequently only too happy to comply. She had given all the servants a few days off, and then realized there were still things she needed for her special Christmas recipes. She would have gone out herself, but said recipes were already underway and couldn't be left unattended. I went for the errands, hoping to bring back even a little Christmas spirit.

Unfortunately, while I was out, the cold wintry weather had been joined by the fog. It was so thick I almost missed the shop where I was headed, and it looked like all the damp in the air was steadily soaking into my bones. As a result, I came back home as low-spirited as I was while going out, and with a newly awakened set of pains throbbing apparently everywhere.

So, when Holmes welcomed me back with: "Lovely weather, isn't it, Watson?", I was ready to bit his head off, however metaphorically. Only there wasn't the slightest trace of sarcasm in his voice.

"What have you taken, Holmes?" I replied instead, my eyes swooping worriedly over his figure in search of the telltale signs of drugs. He had to be hallucinating, after all. I knew it was bound to happen soon, but I still wished I hadn't left him alone. Not that my presence ever stopped him, in the past, but...

"Nothing yet" my friend said, and indeed I could see no hint at all of drug use – but that he was perfectly serious a moment before.

"You just happen to like this kind of weather?" I asked, baffled, while sitting down on my armchair. If Holmes had finally lost it, I was not going to face him standing.

"Why, Watson, it's perfect" he answered, and indeed he looked pleased.

"Whatever for?" I inquired.

"If I were a criminal, I couldn't wish for better conditions to act in. If we have no prospects of work soon, I shall think the English criminals an idle bunch indeed" Holmes stated, clearly hopeful.

"Holmes" I countered "I know the seasonal goodwill has left you much wanting, but don't you find a bit...blasphemous to wish for a murder on Christmas Eve?".

"Whoever mentioned murder, Watson? Not that I would object to it..." he observed, laughing "It looks like you miss the hunt too, uh? You've been corrupted by me. No, things have been so dull I'd take almost whatever. It's not too blasphemous to hope someone will vanish, is it?".

I blushed a bit when confronted with the truth. I had assumed – deadly sin in Holmes's list – and ascribed to him much bloodier wishes than he had. Was it really _my_ wish, deep down? It was decidedly not the right time to dabble in introspection, though. Instead, I caught on his last sentence and jested back: "Well, Holmes, if I knew, I'd have gotten lost on the way home. The fog would have made it all too easy".

"Never, Watson" he ordered, his tone all too final for my little joke.


	5. Chapter 5

A.N. : The prompt comes from The Inner Titan : A rubber ducky! Today it comes really late because I've been mightily irritated with my family and so inspiration fled... (not that there is much of it). I apologize in advance for all OOCness and crack.

With Christmas coming up, Mrs. Hudson had bullied Holmes into tidying up. One wouldn't think the woman was capable of it, but the threat of sneaking in while we were out and cleaning everything up by way of burning it all had proven exceptionally effective. Even if she wouldn't, because such an endeavour would probably burn the whole house down due to the sheer mass of random documents. Exactly what persuaded Holmes, with all likelihood – that, or the chance that an old experiment ending in the promised bonfire created a bomb and annihilated the whole road.

I felt bad leaving him to it, and since he wouldn't let me organize things – even if I'm sure I would be better at it – I offered to retrieve papers and knickknacks from around the room so he could whirlwind them back into their proper place. Or – acceptable place, since Holmes found them perfectly located exactly where they were.

Our teamwork is not useful only in dangerous situations. The sitting room went back to decent long before I thought I could reasonably expect it to. When Holmes retreated to his own room to continue the rearrangement, I wordlessly followed. I admit that I didn't even realize the breach of privacy until just now – and apparently, neither did Holmes, or he didn't care.

Necessarily snooping around my friend's bedroom is, I confess, an highly entertaining deed. I found reminders of past cases resting most unsteadily on the windowsill, various odd and ends on the floor – which I didn't dare inquire about, but that stirred my imagination – but only a thing was so average yet so unconciliable with Holmes' image that I had to ask after it.

I had emerged with my prize from under his bed, and inquired, laughing: "A rubber ducky, Holmes? Really?". Indeed it was, a quite large, brilliantly yellow rubber duck.

"Oh! Mycroft!" said he, and I turned in search of the elder Holmes. He was nowhere to be seen, of course, and since it's quite hard to miss him, I sighed within myself, fully expecting Holmes to have dodged an explanation fleeing by the window, after this basic red herring tactic. He was still with me, though.

"I didn't even remember I brought it along" he observed "and no, Watson, I was not trying to throw you off the track. The thing's name is Mycroft".

I fear I gaped at this bit of information.

"It was gifted to me when I was a child, still very little, as you'd expect. Of course, I had to name it. And...well, the hue was wrong, but the figure looked similar enough that I christened it after my brother" Holmes confessed.

"The likeness seemed much more apparent when I was younger" my friend continued, almost apologetic.

"I bet your brother was not amused" I replied.

"He said I should be slain" Holmes recounted "but he has yet to be true to his word".


	6. Chapter 6

A.N. Prompt from Aleine Skyfire: An elderly Holmes watches Basil Rathbone's Hound of the  
Baskervilles and reacts to it (preferably in a negative fashion…).  
Today it comes late too because I had to do research. I knew Basil the Mouse, but I did not Basil the Rat (keep in mind I'm Italian: I'm sure this film gets aired every year in England). I found the thing on Youtube, and I spent a long time ROFLing. Why? Because I know English enough, but understanding the language talked (quickly, if I may add) was somehow hard, so I activated the subtitles function. The subtitles were made either from a faulty program or a drunk, spiteful barely-English-talker. When I understood (I think) "according to British law" it was written "according to Becky Sharp". Vanity Fair crossover subtitles! If you ever need a laugh, you now know what to do.

I knew I shouldn't have indulged in it. Watson's stories were bad enough. But this...

I'm growing old, though, and I'm human – no matter what others may think – and as such, entitled to nostalgia. That's the only justification I have for curling up in front of the television and suffering through the Rat's mauling of the Baskervilles' case. I missed the old days, but much more than that, I simply missed Watson. Age is catching up with the both of us, making us less prone to trips – even relatively short ones – and he's still in London, and...I'm too proud to ask for company after running away to care for _bees_, of all things. Since Watson had had a large role in that particular case – for most of the time I was the one in the shadows, for a change – I felt for a time half hopeful about the show.

A very short time. For all I complained about my friend's writings, he did not alter the facts. Yes, I felt that all these romantic tales of his – half of the time, the motive of our crimes – could be summarized in a few sentences. As he objected, though, he wouldn't suppress what had happened for the sake of the demonstration. I respected creators of the adaptation, though, changed the facts – from vital truths up to menial things – and without any conceivable reason.

Why would they kill off Dr. Mortimer's spaniel right at the beginning? It was a good dog, and unlucky enough as it was. Why would a German waiter – I would even forgive them if they forgot the German bit – become a maid? And if you want to make the whole show even more idiotically praeternaturnal that it was – and wasn't it enough already? - and can't help but insert a séance in it, would you please do it correctly? Everyone in the circle is supposed to hold hands, not just a single person and the medium. Hell, I took more care with my disguises than they did with the pitiful thing.

As for the important matters – everything was messed up. Seriously. Mrs. Laura Lyons and Lestrade were both deleted without a care. I did not care for Sir Charles Baskerville's romance, but I'm seeing Watson's point now. The dog is clearly simply a dog – how costly could a bit of phosphorous be? The truth about Stapleton's supposed sister is never cleared, too, and it brings about a most insulting situation. Of course Watson would follow Baskerville around, following my instructions, but no one can really think he would interrupt another's romance without a pressing danger! Anyone who reads his recount would know it was Stapleton's jealous rage – an huge hint – to separate the man from his beloved. I have half a mind to follow Frankland's example and press some kind of charges against the authors of such a willful murder of truth.

Watson, poor friend, has been mistreated a lot. His nerves are much better than they were credited in the show (I would like to see the actor and screenwriters go through half what he survived): inside the client's home, however suspicious of the servants, he wouldn't point his gun at whoever came into a room. The actor plays a fool most perfectly, too, but that's not what Watson is – or was – and anyone who thinks like that is blind like a bat. I do not know why the doctor would consent to such a maiming of his work and character.

I realize after all this complaining about the Rat's rendering of my own person is kind of pleonastic on top of being pointless. Four points, though, I need to get off my chest:

Why would I invite Watson to my hide out when I had appointed him as Baskerville's bodyguard? It is not only counterproductive. It robs Watson of a successful – if useless – investigation he conducted all on his own, about the moor dweller. Not his fault I was the misterious stranger.

The Rat is a bloody fool. With an intelligent, ruthless murderer at large, one does not go snooping around the man's lair and gets himself trapped. It does not matter that he escaped. If the true Stapleton had been given such a chance, he would have found a way to kill me off right there. Murdering Baskerville could come after that, and it would be much easier.

The mention of the needle is preposterous. Watson never liked my using, so I tried to reserve the drug to when I really, desperately needed it. This meant stagnation, boredom – the longest I could stand. I did not certainly need it right after an interesting case's good ending.

The true, mortal sin of the Rat. He's supposed to represent me, and he dares to bring a Stradivarius (or what is supposed to represent one) in a precarious shelter deep into the moor? I'd rather lose a limb than risk damaging it.


	7. Chapter 7

A.N. Today's prompts comes from cjnwriter : Who sends Holmes Christmas cards this year?

I had fun with it! (Even if it came out a bit depressing). OOCness probably galore, I apologize.

December 1894

Once again settled in Baker Street, together with Holmes. It has been months since it happened, but there are times I still expect to wake up and find out it was all a wonderful, impossible dream. I've written it down, hoping that sharing the news would settle my soul. It helped, but not completely, so I'm really looking forward to Christams. Celebrating together once again will convince me definitely that he's not an hallucination who is going to disappear. If it doesn't, I have no idea what would.

When Holmes receives Christmas cards, I perk up. Someone else is acknowledging he's alive – really – and it's comforting, in a way. I think Holmes realizes, because he shares them. Always.

The first one to come is a somehow expected one. As usual, it is very distinguished outside, while the inside is way more bold that one would expect – just like its sender. Instead of some generic well wishes, there are three kiss marks imprinted with red lipstick, and an equally red I. Of course, there is no sender's address.

"That woman won't stop" Holmes observes, just the tiniest bit miffed, handing it to me.

"She's making up for lost time, instead" I observe quietly: hers used to bring a single kiss mark. "You know most people would be delighted receiving it, don't you?" I can't help but say.

"Watson" he replies, tiredly "surely you do realize that if I were delighted, she would definitely not send any."

"Of course. I bet her middle name is Tease" I declare, earning myself a smile.

The next one has a jolly Santa Claus printed on. Holmes takes a quick look and asks: "Am I supposed to reply to this at all?".

The writing is similar enough to his own, and it reads:_ I hope he'll bring you some sense, little brother. M. _

"If you want" I answer noncommittally. It amazes me Mycroft would send such a message. It won't happen – not _common _sense, at least, the only one Holmes sorely lacks – and we all know it won't. Pointless is not Mycroft's style, but the habit to pick on Sherlock is too engrained, apparently.

After that, it comes a pretty common one. A garland and well wishes already printed on it. However, it is an heartfelt one. It comes from the Yard, and the signatures of Inspectors and constables fill every single free inch – and spill over the engraving a bit.

One would think that Holmes' lack of tact and the not quite professional rivalry, bound to be born between the policemen and the consulting detective, would make them shy away from every not compulsory contact. It is very evidently not so. Holmes has been missed, and their happiness at having him back bursts from the card.

If in need of amusement, one could look at the names' position, dimension and handwriting. Inspector Hopkins – Holmes' self-appointed unofficial pupil – must have bought the card, and written his name, placed in the centre and normal-sized, before bringing it back to the Yard. On the left, I swear Lestrade's and Gregson's signature are fighting between each other, as different as the men themselves. Athelney Jones keeps his distance from the mess they created, choosing the opposite side and making his best attempt at literal calligraphy, with Bradstreet following his example. Half the Yarders have squeezed their names – or, sometimes, their monograms – wherever else they could.

Holmes is evidently pleased by it. He stops himself from criticizing it at all, and that's all the hint I need to understand. I make a mental note of being extra kind next time I meet any of them.

The next card surprises everyone. It comes all the way from Uttar Pradesh. Of course, I berate myself, if Holmes has been up to Tibet during his past wanderings, it stands to reason that he would make acquaintances – friends? - there.

"I didn't think he'd contact me" he says quietly, handing it over.

The card – battered by the voyage – reads: _Happy to know you're ok again. Thank W. for the news. Victor _

"What happened?" I inquire subduedly. The first sentence is ominous, even when I have him safe beside me.

"Nothing much. I met Victor Trevor again. Not by my own will, mind you. His dog's habits did not change through the years. Or perhaps I'm especially hateful to it – or tasty. Anyhow, in its old age, it latched onto my ankle anew. I had come far enough that I did not feel the need for a most complete disguise, and coupled with the same situation, Victor recognized me quickly enough. I spent only a few days with him – I ran away sooner that I could. To be honest, though, I don't think he meant the ankle when he wrote "ok". I was terribly homesick, even when I had no right to" Holmes confesses.

"Holmes, Holmes...it's natural that he'd contact you" I reply, choosing to overlook everything he just admitted. That's a minefield. Convincing him he had every right to be homesick is a feat I'm not yet ready to

"Does this mean I've gained a pen pal?" my friend queries, acknowledging my change of subject.

"If you want. It's not so bad, I assure you" I say, lightening the atmosphere.

I decide then and there to write back to the man myself in order to thank him for taking care of Holmes, if only a bit. He mentioned me, after all.

The last one was a card – or better said, a piece of paper – and it reached us around Christmas, though not exactly a well wishing one.

It had a Devonshire stamp and the uneven writing read: _Happy you didn't disappoint. I hope you remember. I do. _

It took Holmes no time at all to deduce it came from an "old acquaintance" of us currently domiciliated in Dartmoor. A guard had to have been corrupted to let the man send it.

Why do I mention it among the Christmas cards? Because nothing else among our mails at the time made Holmes half as gleeful. Figures.

P.S. "Trevor was the only man I knew, and that only through the accident of his bull terrier freezing on to my ankle one morning as I went down to chapel. It was a prosaic way of forming a friendship, but it was effective. [...] The good fellow was heart-broken at it, and went out to the Terai tea planting, where I hear that he is doing well " . ACD, GLOR.

Wikipedia:

The **Terai **is a belt of marshy grasslands,savannas, and forestslocated** south of the outer foothills of the ****Himalaya**, the Siwalik Hills, and north of theIndo-Gangetic Plainof the Ganges, Brahmaputraand their tributaries. The Terai belongs to the Terai-Duar savanna and grasslandsecoregion. In northern India, the Terai spreads eastward from the Yamuna Riveracross Himachal Pradesh, Haryana, Uttaranchal, Uttar Pradeshand Bihar.

Now, any objections?

And I know bull terrier live 10 -15 years, but if it was very well treated I don't see why it couldn't survive from around 1875 (time of GLOR's setting) to 1893 (17 years).


	8. Chapter 8

A.N. Today's prompt is from Aleine Skyfire: Holmes and Moriarty have a verbal war on Twitter (and Moran and Watson join in). Canon, not BBC-verse.

I have no Twitter account, so if it comes out too much chat-like and not-so-Twitterish, do forgive me. Also, you could have noticed already I talk too much: 140 characters limit was a true challenge!

I'm not entirely satisfied with Moriarty's and Holmes' nicknames, too...but couldn't rack my brain for better ones.

**Finally fixed completely Watson's nickname issue (I hope). Whyever would using a dot instead of _ in his name cause the whole name not to be shown? ...and I used the at before the names (even if I'm not sure it's ok, probably need to retweet something for all the players to know what was being said). I did before, too, but the at without space before the name made it not be shown. I'm trying to put a space in between /at and the names, hoping it will show. Otherwise...advice? **

M_athProfessor is now online.

ConsultMe is now online.

M_athProfessor: ConsultMe. #enoughisenough, stop following me.

ConsultMe: M_athProfessor. Don't see why, I'm _very_ interested in your projects.

M_athProfessor: ConsultMe. That's why, this account wasn't meant for nuisances. It was supposed to help my work.

ConsultMe: M_ath professor. Block me if you can.

M_athProfessor: ConsultMe. Tech and _applied _science confound me, and you know. Will have to find other means.

ConsultMe: M_athProfessor. Feel free to. Please do your best.

TigerHunter is now online

TigerHunter: M_athProfessor. About #gettingridofpests, my order just came in! :-))

M_athProfessor: TigerHunter. Satisfactory, I presume?

ConsultMe: TigerHunter. What is it? Tell me, come on!

TigerHunter: M_athProfessor. It's a beauty. Perfect in every way. ConsultMe: Don't worry. You'll see it. Soon. I promise.

ConsultMe: TigerHunter. Close up?

TigerHunter: ConsultMe. No real need to. If you like it, though...

M_athProfessor: TigerHunter. Do not give away what it is. It's meant to be a surprise, after all.

TigerHunter: M_athProfessor. Right, sorry. I was thrilled.

M_athProfessor: ConsultMe. Back to the point. Stop bothering me.

DrW_riter is now online

DrW_riter: ConsultMe. What are you doing? Need calculus tutoring now?

ConsultMe: DrW_riter. Didn't know you had an account. And no, I don't. It's a case.

M_athProfessor: DrW_riter. And how did you get into this conversation? I'm tired of uninvited strangers in here.

DrW_riter: ConsultMe. Mary said I needed another hobby. Few things to write about now. Case? Tell me!

DrW_riter: M_athProfessor: I follow ConsultMe. Old habits die hard.

ConsultMe: DrW_riter. It's #widelyknown: Professors are evil. Some more so. Hence my involvement in this.

M_athProfessor: ConsultMe. Hey! I resent that! You condemn me just because #youdon'tunderstand my reasoning.

M_athProfessor: DrW_riter. Do not involve yourself. I do not like collateral damage nor wild cards.

ConsultMe: M_athProfessor. I _do _understand. I won't let you do whatever you wish, though.

DrW_riter: ConsultMe. Need help? I'm always game.

TigerHunter: Good! I _like _game.

ConsultMe: DrW_riter. M_athProfessor is right. Do not involve yourself. When I need, I ask. TigerHunter. Do not even _think_ about it.

DrW_riter: ConsultMe. You _never _ask. I know you, remember?

ConsultMe: DrW_riter. This time, I will. Promise. Do find someone else to follow for now, though.

DrW_riter: ConsultMe. I'm not going to impose if I'm not wanted. : [

TigerHunter: DrW_riter. Good boy. Do keep out of this business. It is not for scribblers and I'll make sure there's no need of _doctors_. :-ˏ

DrW_riter: TigerHunter. The pen is mightier than the sword, you know. And I'm not so bad.

TigerHunter: DrW_riter. Which is why I love firearms.

ConsultMe: DrW_riter. Do not squabble with idiots, even if provoked. It's a loss of time you could more happily spend somewhere else.

: ConsultMe. Since you insist, I'm off. But if at all possible I do want the chance to punch so-called TigerHunter irl.

DrW_riter is now offline

M_athProfessor: ConsultMe. Let's all end this waste of cyberspace. It's obvious we won't reach an agreement here.

ConsultMe: M_athProfessor. We won't reach an agreement period. I will keep an eye on you, though. (^_-)

ConsultMe is now offline

M_athProfessor: TigerHunter. Did you see how he gets when you pick at DrW...riter? :-D

TigerHunter: Interesting.

P.S. I know it's stupid Moriarty not being proficient with tech but I found it hilarious. Perhaps a lackey set up his account? Do forgive me for it...


	9. Chapter 9

A. N. Today's prompt comes from Ennui Enigma dearest: 1895. Hope it is satisfactory!

All year round

January

New year, new life...old life? A few years back, I expected to find myself in a completely different setting today. With Mary, at least a couple of children, a flourishing practice (and why wouldn't it?)...Instead, I've lost my dear, am childless (thank God for that: this is no place for a baby), and willingly sold the practice (the only thing which seemed prone to follow my predictions). And yet, even if I am apparently back at square one, I discover that I'm happier that I've been in years.

February

A most busy month, for the both of us. Crime and viruses happily spread, but we managed to contain them. Next time Holmes finds himself restless for lack of a case, I must suggest he study the possibility of a correlation between health and villainous threats. They seem to like the same conditions, after all.

March

A most weird crime this month, though one my friend did not need to be consulted for. In Ireland, a man killed his wife believing her to be a fairy changeling. It was pointed out to me by Doyle at the club – the man likes all that fairy and generally fairytale-like fad of nowadays. When I went back home, Holmes was ready to comment on it, bemoaning the loss of common sense – one does not dare ask for _logic –_ between the criminals.

April

Exactly one year since I have him back. Miracles do happen. It's weird. I know now – I knew from the day he made me faint like a girl – that it was no miracle. A trick, a plan, a call-it-how-you-like, but no impossible or praeternatural feat. I still can't shake the word off from my brain and the feeling from my soul, though.

May

"British law is still far from perfect" was Holmes' comment to Wilde's conviction, at the end of a much rumored trial – trials, to be correct.

"Is it?" I queried.

"The man's supposed victims weren't complaining, from what I understood. And it is a sorry state that sins should be counted as criminal offences. What if envy got people two years in prison too? How many of Wilde's prosecutors would go free?" he replied.

"It is sound reasoning" I admitted, smiling.

"You, Watson, would make a better jury on your own than all these petty, easily outraged idiots" Holmes praised me. And of course, I blushed.

June

A rainy day can have the weirdest implications. I'm ascribing my somehow morbid mood to the weather – I wouldn't want to be catching Holmes' mood swings. It started with only a couple of lines on the newspaper which gave notice of the death of a Swedish young man, Gustaf Nordenskiöld, whose best feat was an exploration of the American Far West. I read them with barely a thought for the poor man. Before I could go on to more appealing news, however, a thought froze me: in years past I would have disregarded – I had, though not as grievous – news of another North European explorer... I got back to the paragraph and spared a sympathetic thought for Nordenskiöld and his family, whoever they were.

July

I've never liked this month, not since the disaster fifteen years ago. Some things just stay with us, I guess. I've never complained about it, either. It felt pointless, and a bit more pitiful than I was willing to show myself. It's at times like these anyone would feel really thankful towards Holmes – and towards God for having us meet. It could be mere chance that he feels like taking up the violin more often, or that his melodies are on the sweet, soothing side instead of a wild tune. I know better.

August

I would suspect Mycroft of having a hand – or a say – in this if Occam's razor did not try to stop me. Otherwise, why should it happen in a month – at least this year – so spectacularly lacking in interesting cases? Of course, it helps the theatre's finances too. But that Queen's Hall should organize, for the first time, the Promenade Concerts – at a very reasonable price for even the both of us to attend– looks just too convenient for it to be a chance.

September

"Do say whatever is on your mind, Watson; I won't bite" Holmes encourages me. Of course, I've been biting my lips – I don't want to be misinterpreted.

"It's not what you may think it is, but...Norbury, Holmes" I reply.

He comes to loom over me to take a look at the newspaper. "Of course" he agrees "Booker Washington's attempt at compromise. Black people do not ask for equality and receive in exchange a chance at education and 'due process', if we can believe him. Announced at his speech in Atalanta. Well, we know Atalanta has seen much better behaviour on the matter – England too".

October

Best thing happened this month? We had been invited to Diogenes club. "Sometimes it feels like the people present here are the only one with a functioning brain" Mycroft said – probably forgetting my presence, I told myself.

"The Empress of Korea gets killed, and the supposed culprits are acquitted for lack of evidence. All fifty-six of them" he explained. Sherlock's only comment was a snort.

"And they're requesting you _now_" the eldest Holmes announced.

"Do make my excuses, Mycroft. I'm a detective, not a wizard. I can't produce evidence they've clearly destroyed already" Sherlock replied. Mycroft just nodded, and I felt unreasonably happy because my friend wasn't going anywhere.

November

When I met Stamford, he was in a pensive mood. "I've been thinking, Watson – it would be interesting if Wells' time machine really existed, wouldn't it?" he wondered.

"It certainly would" I agreed. "What would you do with it?" I asked, with a preemptive strike. I did not want to have to answer that same question. I had all too many painful things in my past I'd like to change if I could. And yet, given the opportunity I would most probably not use the contraption – too scared my good meaning interferences could end up making it all worse.

"I'd tell myself to choose an higher paying career" Stamford answered with a smile.

"That would a problem for me, you know" I countered "since we wouldn't meet that way". Stamford took it as a kindness towards himself. He didn't realize he would be changing the one thing I absolutely wanted to stay.

December

Doyle's Christmas gift is rubbish. Not that I expected otherwise. A book – of course – and with a completely misleading title to boot. "The lost Stradivarius", indeed. Only it isn't lost, it's found – and it ruins the poor unfortunate soul who does. The violin is haunted by its precedent owner, apparently. I suppose Meade Falkner isn't so bad an author, if one loves this kind of literature. I don't, though. The only good thing I get from it is the mad laugh when I imagine Holmes' ghost haunting – in a far, far, far away future – his priced possession and trying to get a poor boy to take up the science of deduction.

P.S. FYI, Occam's razor is a principle stating that among competing hypotheses, the one that makes the fewest assumptions should be selected. I thought 1895 was just "first year after Hiatus", then I researched and...everything happened that year!

Wells' Time Machine was published in May, but I had better things to talk about for that month. And I needed something for November...


	10. Chapter 10

A.N. Today's prompt is from Ennui Enigma again: Use the phrase "more in your brains than in your pocket?". It is short, and one sentence is probably too long, but the Muse doesn't allow for better.

1880, 75 Montague Street, London

Mrs. Stevens perused the young man on her threshold. "You're here for the room, lad?" she inquired – again.

"We have already determined that. Do you have any objections to it?" he retorted, with a steely glare of his own.

She had objections, oh if she had. She just wished the room could be taken by an honest, poor man, who would stay a long time and not cause any trouble. She had a feeling neither would happen with...Holmes, did he say? And was that an instrument peeking from his baggage? An artist, dear God. These either managed to get a patron – and then they wouldn't stay – or, more often, literally wasted away. And this one had not a spare ounce on his bones he could afford to lose. What if he died on her?

Leaving the room without a tenant would do her income no good, though, and being choosy was not her style. So she just voiced her more pressing concern: "Aren't your assets way more in your brains than in your pocket?".

"For now" he agreed "but I'll vacate the premises the instant I can't afford the rent any more. Do not worry about that".

"I'll hold you to that, boy" she said, allowing him into the house.

As she expected, Holmes _was _trouble. That blasted violin of his sang deep into the nights, and when he was home she'd caught him more than once thoroughly drugged. _Artists!_ She entered the room only to collect rent – which was always at the ready – and what she saw left her wondering about what the hell the kid was doing. A chemistry set did not fit with the idea she got of him – unless he was producing his drugs on his own? She didn't ask, though. It wasn't her place.

But Holmes was full of surprises, apparently. When the neighbour had been robbed and accused another one of her tenants – without reason, of course, but the men still fought heatedly over it – Holmes had come out of his room, wrestled them both into submission, asked about the situation, cleared the accused man of suspicion, found the thief and retrieved the booty, all in two days.

At least, that's what her neighbour said, and he had no reason to lie, had he?

Perhaps he wasn't such a bad kid to have around...


	11. Chapter 11

A.N. Third time is the charm! (Though I'm not completely sure which kind). Once again, a prompt from Ennui Enigma : Short story with Holmes during his "hiatus".

I know Holmes is probably way OOC, but do keep in mind he's going to burn this – he can be honest when nobody will ever read it.

Dearest Watson,

another letter I know I will not ever send. The risk is just too great, and I refuse to ruin everything now.

I've come as far as India, and you know – well, you would if I were crazy enough to have sent my past messages – that it was a most taxing feat. You've spoiled me, Watson. I should be able to take care of myself, but without you by my side – without a single soul I can completely trust – to be doggedly hunted down has left me more than once near the point of physical and mental exhaustion. I can't wish for your company, though. I have no right. And it would be most illogic when my aim was to play bait as long as I could, to begin with, wouldn't it? I won't allow you to be in the viewfinder of such a shooter again. Not if I have any say in it.

This place, though, has managed to push me past my limits. I can almost hear your scolding – I have to agree with it, even, most imprudent on my part – but, surprisingly, it wasn't Moran breathing on my neck that brought me to fainting on the public road. It looked like I had managed to lose him a bit back – and that's what has done me in.

Until I knew his position, I could play the game. A few days back, though, the uncertainty has won over me. India, for me, can be resumed in two words: sensory overload. That, coupled with the knowledge this is Moran's home field, not mine, left me wondering if I'd really managed to get him off my tail or simply lost sight of him. You won't be surprised, then, that I kept running away until I passed out.

It appears I had seriously shaken him off, though – at least temporarily. Otherwise I wouldn't have woken up. I'll confess, Watson – even after such a long time since we parted, I expected to find you beside me for half a second upon regaining conscience. Instead, it was one of those wandering monks so common here who had taken pity on me. He was kind – more than I deserve, I'm sure – and perceptive, too. I'm not sure if my nerves were still so frazzled that I gave myself away, or if the man's career had trained him to be attentive to hints I'm not aware of. He didn't just look after me, though. He gave me advice. "Your soul is troubled" he said "go see the Lama. You'll find peace".

"Go where?" I inquired.

"Tibet. Lhasa" he answered.

Know what, Watson? I have half a mind of following his suggestion. Tibet looks out of the way enough that, in the off-chance Moran does find my trail again, he won't be able to escape my notice by disappearing into the crowd. As for peace...we know I won't find it _here. _

P.S. I'm not even sure the story format isn't betraying the prompt...but temptation was too great.


	12. Chapter 12

A.N.: Prompt from Rockztar : include this sentence, "I looked out my window quietly observing the busy streets then I saw it!"...

Not really satisfied with this one, but it will have to do. Beware: Johnlock finally undeniable in here (you could squint hard and deny the evidence in my past ones, I think). And one other thing, but I'd give this away if I warned you. Rating respected, do not worry. If it really is not your cup of tea, do pass up. Flames will be used for the Bunsen burner.

Life with Sherlock Holmes had never been easy. Well, nobody expected it to be, to begin with... there is a reason everyone bet on my leaving Baker Street within a month. If anyone thought the reason to be Holmes' emotionally stunted situation, and entertained the idea that Sherlock falling in love would have made him more normal, however, he is a bigger fool than I've ever been.

It took me a shamefully long time to understand, as always, but sometime after that best-forgotten period dubbed the Hiatus, I realized I wasn't just fond of my friend – I loved him. The notion scared me half to death, and I even planned to leave the flat...because what would happen when Holmes inevitably realized it? This kind of relationship is a crime, after all.

Apparently, though, Holmes had been doing a lot of thinking...feeling...whatever, these past years, and so _when _he saw the exact extent of my affection, he was all too quick to assure my increduluous self he returned it in full.

The one cloud this could not dissipate – hell, the one cloud it created – depended on Holmes' ingrained habit of not caring a bit for what everyone else thinks. Let me stress the point again: our kind of relationship is a criminal offense, according to British law.

I lived therefore in panic, waiting for the time an affectionate mood would strike him while we were outside, or simply not alone. I'm pretty sure he believed the Yard would not touch him anyway, because who would they go to, the next time they messed up? I wasn't as confident, and could only see how difficult it would be for my detective to survive prison, if we were to be convicted for this, his fighting prowess notwithstanding.

Only two days before I felt like, after a case's ending, he'd almost given us away. Once home, I berated him...and then I saw the glint in his eyes. Then and there, he'd sworn he would take me on a date. In public. He didn't let me apologize or backpedal and I knew he would not give up that mad scheme either.

Yesterday, I had not seen him at all for most of the day, and of course I could not concentrate on anything but worrying and waiting for the inevitable ruin to come.

To try and distract myself, I looked out my window quietly observing the busy streets then I saw it!

...And I'm deliberately keeping the past sentence gender-neutral.

Mrs. Hudson went to the door, and whatever she thought, she kept it to herself. She only had the faintest mirth in her eyes when she came to tell me someone requested my presence. Hopefully she assumed it was about a case.

I'm long used to being dragged around by Holmes, and now I'm used to being kissed by Holmes, but being dragged on a date by a crossdressing Holmes (and yes, kissed. In public. Repeatedly.) was very very new.

I thought I'd die out of the mix of fear and embarassment.

Nobody shrieked outragedly and reported us, though.

I didn't think Sherlock's ability for disguise was so perfect, but apparently he's right. People do see only what they expect to see.

By the end of our date, he managed to get me to relax...and by the time we were back home, I knew we would definitely do it again.


	13. Chapter 13

A.N. The prompt comes from Sparky Dorian : Someone starts to prank the residents of 221B, including replacing Holmes's pipe with a bubble pipe, and Watson's cane with a giant  
candy cane.

Today I was feeling so _not_ cheery, and that's why it comes so late – no inspiration at all. Probably not good.

Mrs. Hudson had taken a week holiday to visit a niece who had just had a child, and so I expected a reasonably nightmarish week. Holmes is hard enough to take care of when the two of us are up to the task, after all...That week, instead, proved to be one of the more annoying yet hilarious I have had the pleasure to live.

Every time we left the house, we couldn't be sure of what we'd find upon our return. It looked like a mischievous fairy – one with a sense of humour – had profited of our landlady's absence to take residence into the house. And I really need to stop frequenting Doyle – these kind of comparisons come from him...

Monday, Holmes was the designated victim. When he went to light his pipe, an inarticulate exclamation came from his throat. I looked at him in worry, but nothing seemed terribly amiss. A closer examination, though, revealed his pipe to be filled with a weird viscous substance he had evidently not put inside it.

"What is that supposed to be?" he inquired indignantly.

"I have no idea, Holmes" I replied "but I think I can guess".That said, I took it and tried to blow. Before I could, though, the object had been snatched from my hands and Holmes experimented himself. Iridescent, soapy bubbles arose from the bowl.

"Perhaps someone is trying to get you to quit smoking" I observed, in between fits of laughter.

He glanced at me suspiciously.

"I'm much more direct than that" I stated, and he nodded in agreement. "By the way, why wouldn't you let me try?" I asked, curious.

"What if it wasn't safe, Watson? It made sense to keep the doctor unharmed" Holmes replied.

I was torn into feeling sad that he had apparently never played with the harmless thing as a child or warmed by his concern, and somehow managed both at the same time.

Tuesday it was my turn. What's fair is fair. My most recent manuscript had vanished.

"Someone objects to your writings too?" Holmes joked, when I asked his help in retrieving it.

"Possibly" I said "and in a most underhanded manner". I didn't dare to reveal that it had been switched with a collection of handwritten nursery rhymes. I didn't recognize the obviously childish hand, and I wouldn't give it to Holmes to examine. Not unless we didn't find my property, and eventually we found it...equally split under most furniture in the flat (but the writing desk, of course). No harm done but to my pride, in the end.

Wednesday the playful spirit targeted Holmes – again. It seemed of a somehow more malevolent nature towards him too, because what was removed could not be found again, no matter how high and low we searched. It hadn't stolen anything vital or cherished, luckily.

Holmes was still grumpy about having no hat left but a deerstalker the prankster had inadvertently – or purposefully? - missed, though.

I inquired if, it having escalated to theft, we needed to take some sort of measure.

"No matter – I'm confident I'll get it all back" he answered. So he knew our unseen visitor. I would be informed if and when I needed to know, so it was useless to ask.

Thursday I had a lesson. That is, never leave behind your medical bag. I usually don't, but – we only went to grab a quick bite, and nothing should have happened. Oh, don't worry, nothing did. When I went to work after, though, all the gauzes I kept in there had been exchanged for lacy handkerchiefs. They looked clean, however, so I used them at need. I've been consistently red for the later part of the day, though.

Friday I shouldn't have laughed, I really shouldn't. Seeing my friend leave the shower with a strawberry blonde head of hair – and since he had no case I couldn't imagine of a reason to disguise himself – however proved to be too much.

From his surprised reaction to my burst, it was clear he hadn't checked himself into a mirror. When he did, he grumbled: "Just what we need. An etymologist prankster".

Luckily for him, the dye was easy to wash away.

Saturday I knew I needed to fear. With such a stubbornly even-handed prankster, there was no doubt. Nothing apparently happened, and I was beginning to think our tormentor had tired himself out.

That is, until I tried to have a drink of my beloved brandy and found it switched with maple syrup. Could get worse, I guess...

Sunday we were both subjected to it, and the sheer size of the jokes escalated as well. When I went to take my cane, planning an afternoon stroll, I found it nowhere. Instead, a giant candy cane, white and pink striped, sat proudly where I left my own.

As for Holmes, his latest experiment – which had expanded on test tube after test tube, until it covered almost all the table – had been switched with cocoa, powdered or melted to match the state of each vial's content. It wasn't such a bad result in my opinion. I expected Holmes to vehemently complain, but he determinedly ignored the entire matter.

"Has it ended?" my friend asked grouchily to the newly returned Mrs. Hudson, the following Monday.

"Whatever are you talking about, Mr. Holmes?" countered she, the very picture of astonished innocence.

"Your streak of annoying little revenge. Your point has come across: you have the talent to bother us as well, if you only choose to do so" Holmes declared.

"Really, Holmes...it couldn't be her pranking us – we had the weirdest series of accident, Mrs. Hudson, sorry – she wasn't even here" I interjected.

"The next time you want to use that kind of alibi, Madame, do keep from using your keys to be free to enter the house. No sign of breaking and entering whatsoever restricted the suspects terribly, and since Watson has been a victim as well..." Holmes continued, making me feel like a fool – as usual.

"Oh, well – guilty as charged, but it looks like my plan worked too. Yes, of course I'll stop, Mr. Holmes. I always meant to" Mrs. Hudson agreed, good-naturedly.

I was somehow fearing Mardi Gras now...

P.S. I know I didn't exactly follow the prompt, but I found on the web you could convert a normal clay pipe into a bubble pipe and couldn't resist. It said you shouldn't do it with a pipe already used for smoking, but it did not explain why, so...will you and Holmes forgive me for ruining the thing?

It made sense for me that Holmes would know every chemical and clay around at a glance but not soapy water...He just doesn't look the "I'll do the house chores" type of man.

About Friday: Sherlock does mean "fair-haired". Couldn't help myself.

And yes, I realize it could have been used a duplicate key, but you had to take the imprint of the original, which would leave wax traces on their keys if done, and who would track down the absent Mrs. Hudson to duplicate her key for _that_?


	14. Chapter 14

A. N. Prompt from Wordwielder : Family Man

Family is a strange thing. It ties together people without regards to intelligence, tastes, inclinations and all things one should reasonably consider when gathering people together for a considerable amount of time. And of course, it gives you no choice at all. You're bound. And if you do manage to break such a chain, it won't be without hurting yourself severely in the process.

As a consequence, there are people who find their own family quite enough to deal with, thank you very much, and are in no hurry of forming yet another – like, ever.

Then, there is the second category: what's called commonly a 'family man'. Everyone knows Dr. Watson - "the good doctor" - is one of those. He just can't help forming bonds, but no, that's not exact – he positively _thrives_ on them.

Even when there is nothing much to be happy about. His brother, just as an example: he's never been a particularly pleasant person – not that the drinking helped. But Holmes' open-mouth-insert-foot routine leaves the detective with a certainty. Even if that particular bond hurt, Watson has never even dreamt about wishing the man didn't exist.

Family-related metaphors seem to be coined thinking about the man. Brothers-in-arms? Definitely. There is a reason colonel Hyater pleaded so much for his company, and now that Watson's address is public, he keeps getting letters from grateful – and sometimes concerned – former comrades.

So, when Watson announces his engagement, Holmes isn't pleased, but he is even less surprised. Watson was born to find a nice girl, marry her, treat her like a princess and end up with a new child every year. And there is really no reason but the detective's selfishness to object to Mary Morstan changing her surname.

Watson is, though, unlucky about family as much as he is made for it. For once (or twice, to be honest), Holmes' predictions are way off the mark – at least about the conclusion. The detective isn't sure the dog – or these army friends – will be an effective enough substitute for all the bonds which keep getting broken in his doctor's life. So, the only choice he really has is to take the first train to Calais, isn't it?

There is a third category, you know, in addition to the family man and the "not-me-please" kind of man. The people who think they belong to the "relatives is quite enough" category because, let's get real, who would accept them? _They _barely stand themselves, sometimes. It's easier – and more dignified as well – not to search for something impossible to find anyway. They're likely to make a surprising discovery.

It is never wise to mess with anyone's loved ones, but heed my word. Do carefully keep from even thinking about hurting a third kind man's family. They easily snap.

P.S. FYI, "My old friend, Colonel Hyater, who had come under my professional care in Afghanistan, had now taken a house near Reigate, in Surrey, and had frequently asked me to come down to him upon a visit", ACD, REIG.


	15. Chapter 15

AN: Prompt from SheWhoScrawls : An Irregular throws a snowball at the sitting room window of 221B, not realizing that it is open, and hits Holmes squarely in the face.

I'll admit such a precise prompt made me feel more like a typewriter than an author. Let's just hope my ribbon didn't jam. :-P

Didn't even try the Irregulars' London slang. I get English (mostly) and can write it, but that is way out of my league.

It became a lot sadder than I thought – I sincerely apologize.

Spence looked pensively at the house in front of him. 221B Baker Street. Perhaps Mr. Holmes had some work for him? It was nearing Christmas, the weather had taken a turn for the worst – the snow had piled up nicely tonight – and a few coins would not go amiss. Of course, _if _Mr. Holmes needed them, he usually contacted the gang himself – or he let Wiggins know and pass the word along. Nothing of the sort had happened, but – if he didn't find a proper way to make some money soon he'd have to steal _again_, and what if he got caught, and...after all, if he just asked, it was no big deal, right?

He didn't feel like ringing the door, though. The landlady was nice enough, and she didn't seem to care much if he reported to Holmes or – in such occasions – helped himself to her cookies. Coming unexpected and unwanted, however, was a completely different matter.

Spence decided to make use of his talents and send a snowball to Holmes' sitting room window. That'd get his attention, hopefully, and if he looked on the street, Spence would get invited in, and then his presence was legitimate, right?

To make sure he would get noticed, he prepared the biggest snowball he ever had, and threw it with a considerable amount of energy. He needed a big impact, after all. Only, he didn't see it splatter satisfactorily against the glass, but get right in. The window had been open!

Spence prayed fervently for an heartbeat that it would harmlessly end somewhere...till he heard clearly the good old doctor's laughter. His deduction that someone else – more likely than not Holmes – had been targeted and consequent duck for cover took less than a second. No coins or cookies today...

Meanwhile, into the rooms...

Holmes was going to control one of his experiments – hadn't reached the table with the chemicals yet, luckily – when the wet, white bomb dived into the room and appeared irresistibly attracted by the detective's face, messily landing on it. He didn't even yelp from the cold, but the bewildered expression was too much for his companion's control. Watson's hearty laugh quickly changed in apologies at his friend's wet raised eyebrow.

"I know it's silly, but – you should see yourself, Holmes" the doctor stated in justification.

"I think a more pressing need would be closing that window, Watson" Holmes replied quietly.

"Yeah, of course" his friend agreed "and I wouldn't have opened it at all, you know, if you didn't smoke like a factory's chimney".

P.S. informs me "snow" is an informal synonym for "bewilder"...couldn't resist sharing the knowledge. 


	16. Chapter 16

A.N. Back to a prompt from Ennui Enigma [it's becoming an habit, this! :-) ] : Use the words, "candlestick, revolver, pipe, rope, spanner, poison"

Yeah, I did notice the prompt is just one word away from being the weapons' list in Cluedo. So I twisted up a little the hint at the game. ;-)

And well, my OC never profited off reading Peter's Evil Overlord List, but it wasn't out in 1800, now was it?

Ouch. Coming back to consciousness is never particularly pleasant. When in the hands of the murderer you're supposed to catch...well, I've been better. Consistently worse, too, mind you. A throbbing headache and finding oneself tightly bound with coarse rope is much less than I expected. It happens when the murderer is somehow of a coward, I guess.

The man has poisoned his own sister – much more well off than he, thanks to a good marriage – hoping it would be considered either accident or suicide. As if. Mrs. Peacock's case was more a problem of weeding out the false suspects than anything else. Money does lure all kinds of people, after all, and the woman had quite the heterogeneous crowd around her. I wonder why I've not been administered the same poison, too.

"So you're finally awake, Mr. Holmes" I hear. "I was beginning to think that candlestick had done much more damage than it was meant to do" he cordially adds.

"I wasn't aware you cared for me" I reply.

"I don't" he answers curtly "but it would do no good to cut the fun short, would it?".

I don't say anything – no need to.

"You shouldn't have thrown a spanner in my works, Holmes" he declares "it matters not to you if I take my sister's riches or not, after all".

"I will not allow such a petty criminal to go unpunished" I state. I'm not provoking him now. I'm just being truthful.

He scowls and takes a vial out of his pocket. "I'm sure I don't have to explain to you what it contains, do I?" he taunts.

"Of course not" I agree. It holds the toxin, no doubts.

"Do you know why I've not used it on you?" he inquires.

"I'm not a mind reader" I admit. Really, Watson's stories have given people the weirdest impression.

"Amuse me" he orders "beg for your life. I _could_ forgo the procedure".

Oh, right. Coward and bully go happily together. His sister was unawares, so his sadistic instincts have not been satisfied.

"I don't feel like it" I bit back, doing my best to stare him down from the floor "after all, you'd be more stupid than I gave you credit for if you would".

I'm not suicidal, if that's what you're thinking. The man is in the mood for something, so...three, two, one...

"How arrogant" he asserts, pocketing the vial "too proud to beg in the face of Death, Mr. Holmes? Or perhaps you don't care if you die. Better than being bested?".

This man _is_ more an imbecile than I credited him to be. He talks like I have nothing but the hunt to live for. And he's still talking.

"So, death doesn't scare you. Well, what about pain, I wonder?" he queries, taking a fragment of pipe from a corner of this cellar.

He's playing right into my hands. I'll probably come out of this with a few broken bones, but I just have to hold on, not give him what he wants, and he'll keep losing time here...

As I don't deem him worthy of an answer, he lifts his arm, eyes rowing over me to decide where to hit. I wait for the impact...

Instead, a revolver thunders off and the pipe clatters noisily down to the floor. I don't even have to look to know the murderer's wrist is now bleeding, and potentially broken.

"Turn around" an angry voice barks. Way sooner than I reasonably expected to hear it, too. Note to self: commend him later.

The murderer, being the coward he is, naturally obeys. A firearm's persuasive power is really remarkable.

"Now" Watson says (of course: who did _you_ expect? ) "we're waiting for the police, who's going to be here soon. Or you can do anything and I can shoot you dead in self-defense. Your choice".

The doctor is looking worriedly at me. He wants nothing best than to be rid of this nuisance to begin mother henning, but it is obvious he wouldn't really kill the man if he had any other option. Not so obvious to our culprit, though, if his blanched face is anything to go by. What an idiot!

I'd like to reassure Watson that I'm as fine as I could be, but I keep my mouth shut. It's not my person he must concentrate on, now.

Lestrade comes soon enough, and he happily relieves Watson of his prisoner. Now the doctor is instantly at my side, untying and checking and talking all at the same time.

"Really Holmes" he protests "you have to stop taking off on your own! If I'm at work, do lose a moment to come round and bring me with you. Don't just leave me a message. Do you have any idea what could have happened if we were any later?".

Of course I have. And why is he saying we? He saved me all on his own. And it looks like he left behind the police to do so, hence his berating looks a bit on the pot calling the kettle black side. Just a bit, though – I know I'm worse than him on this regard. Naturally, I don't say any of this.

"I'm sorry I made you worry" I reply, instead "especially since I didn't share the feeling". Not at all. And that is the unadulterated truth.


	17. Chapter 17

A.N. Today's prompt is: Use the words "Politician, Lighthouse, Trained Cormorant". Guess whose? Ennui Enigma, of course! My calculator informs me 29% of my prompt are now hers. I think Lord Hades' randomizer picked up on our friendship and means to strengthen it. :-)

Not as satisfied as yesterday, but it will have to do.

Another case tonight. One of Mycroft's. Holmes is always happy about them. He can be sure his brother will not send for him if it is an 'armchair case', as he calls them. Mycroft hogs all of those he comes across – the man needs his own amusement too, I guess.

As for me, I'd like to herd every politician in the kingdom and teach them a short seminar on "How to take care of one's papers". I understand treatises and secret plans are on high demand, but the easiness they disappear with is simply ludicrous. Unless Mycroft has some part in it...but the man wouldn't betray Queen and country to keep his sibling entertained, would he?

And that's why I'm no good at stakeouts. After awhile, if nothing happens I lose concentration and my mind wanders, concocting the weirdest theories. Let's hope something – anything – happens soon.

Luckily, my silent prayer is answered. We are on a wild part of the Cornish coast, and a sudden light – a signal from a ship – appears at sea. In answer, the old, apparently long abandoned lighthouse someone built here in more prosperous times flares to life.

We aren't just supposed to stop the exchange from happening. Mycroft asked Sherlock to look into who would exactly buy these particular documents. They are weapons' projects, and with the current precarious international situation, supposed allies could uncover their readiness to betrayal by aiming at them.

The man can't ask for something easy, now can he?

A longboat with three men reaches the coastline, our thief leaves the lighthouse, and of course we make our presence known. The resulting scuffle is quick, chaotic and fruitful. Both sides in the trade assume the other party has ambushed them and wants either to take the goods without paying or to achieve some sort of evil scheme. As a result, they do not even team up against us. No wonder we win.

In the end, they are all tied up, but before we inform the local police of the betrayer wannabe's capture, Sherlock has to extract the information Mycroft asked for. I keep watch, hoping the men on the ship won't ask themselves why the exchange is taking so much time.

My friend conducts his questioning in some sort of Central European language, so I have no idea what he's saying. He must be very persuasive, though, because soon he frees the foreigners sending them scooting back to their boat. Of course, we are not in a position where we can take them prisoners. It would cause Mycroft all sorts of annoyances with their Embassy.

"They caved in soon" I remark.

"He, Watson, the other two were just sailors" Holmes corrects me. "Anyway, that's what people get when they are too careful. The man was just a trained cormorant, he wasn't even working for his own country. They thought that if the exchange was interrupted, people hearing him talk would have assumed the country involved to be the one he was from. His superiors were too confident, though: they didn't think he'd be caught. Alive, at least. Mind you, _why_ they thought we'd send a bunch of happy-trigger fools is beyond me,. And since our friend was to spit back what he obtained to his employers, with little advantage for himself or his people but a bit of gold, he had really no reason not to be talkative" he explains.

"Right, of course. Why didn't you ask the seller of his country here? You couldn't be sure you'd know the buyer's language, could you?" I can't help but ask.

"As if he couldn't be lied to" Holmes replies "all he cares about is money, after all". He does not answer my doubt about idioms, as he is wont to do with particularly idiotic questions. Will have to probe the exact depth of his linguistic knowledge when I'm bored.

P.S. Yes, I know, I kept the thief mute. Seriously, having been caught red-handed in such a criminal act, would you feel talkative? I'd hope everyone forgot me long enough that I could devise an escape. I wouldn't worry denying Holmes' opinion about me (especially if it's true).


	18. Chapter 18

A.N. Prompt from MadameGiry25 : God rest ye merry gentlmen.

Not sure about this one, but...well.

It was almost Christmas. Garlands, festive lights, and joyfulness spread wherever. And, of course, carols – and carolling people – were likely to make themselves heard at any time. Sometimes, admittedly, they were annoying. Most often than not, that was my friend and flatmate's opinion – especially if he was busy with his chemicals. Loud, out-of-tune disruption of his focus were not appreciated.

Hence, when one morning a quite approximative rendition of "God rest ye merry gentlemen" startled even me on the stairs from my bedroom to the sitting room, I thought I knew the mood I'll find Holmes in. I didn't expect to catch him with the tiniest smile on his lips.

"Do you like that wailing, Holmes?" I couldn't help but ask, so surprised I was.

"These singers could very much improve with a lesson or two in both harmony and rhythm" my friend conceded – truth is truth, after all – "I just happen to like the first stanza's lyrics".

"Is it so?" I prodded.

"Well, no matter what we do – what the whole Yard does, too – it's just impossible to stop evil, at least here. Knowing Someone is willing to take care of it – to make sure it won't swallow everything...it's _really_ comforting" Holmes admitted quietly.

...And I began to worry about what drug or 'experiment' he had administered to himself to be so _emotionally_ open. Well, such is life at 221B.

P.S. If you doubt Sherlock is a believer (scientific minds often are a bit more on the agnostic side, I know), do read The Naval Treaty again. Then criticize ACD for making Sherlock OOC there. :-))


	19. Chapter 19

A.N. Prompt from ImaLateBloomer: Mrs. Hudson bakes cookies.

I should have known the whole thing was fishy. Really, I should. We still got tricked, though.

Christmas was coming along, so our landlady had decided to bake. Cookies, in that particular instance. Sweet and spicy and very, very good – but I'm running ahead. Mrs. Hudson was in the process of mixing up the ingredients – the woman needs something to entertain herself with, after all – when Holmes appeared in the kitchen (he hadn't been banned...yet).

Since I knew he had a quite tricky case, I thought he was requesting my company for a chase or something like that. I had left the sitting room out of concern for my lungs (when Holmes needs to think, the air does become quickly unbreathable there), and ended keeping company and (hopefully not) bothering Mrs. Hudson in her festive preparations.

Holmes admitted to having finally made a breakthrough, but assured me we could not do anything until the morrow to apprehend our criminal. It happened, sometimes, that we had to wait for specific conditions to occur, and I didn't find it odd. Neither was his good mood – even if the criminal wasn't behind bars yet – and Holmes, when not depressed, has always been a bit on the hyperactive side.

So we found normal that he offered to help (despite his total lack of cooking skills), instead of just admiring Mrs. Hudson's working like myself. God forbid he should get bored while waiting for whatever he needed to happen. And fetching the ingredients was certainly in the realm of his abilities.

Soon, the cookies were ready. And if he did not partook of them...well, the case had not ended yet, not completely, and it was useless to insist. He did not protest at his share being set aside, and so we did.

The following morning both I and Mrs. Hudson exhibited a most peculiar behaviour. She was late with our breakfast, admitting she hadn't been able to find the eggs she had apparently, for some reason, put in the basket with everything that needed mending. Apologizing, she laughed it off, saying she hoped age would not catch up with her yet in such a way. I reassured her, since once wasn't enough to worry, after all. That, and Holmes had been attentive at her domestic tale – no, pleased by it – so I strongly suspected age had not any part in the accident. Still, it looked too childish...

When I rose up, emptied and reloaded my revolver with a different set of rounds, without any reason and without realizing what I was doing, not until I saw the old – perfectly fine – cartridges in my lap and the arm in my hand, I was scared half to death. I instinctively turned to Holmes...and the man was _beaming_.

"Come along, Watson" he prompted me "we do have a murderer to catch now".

"Not until you explain. I have a feeling you know what overcame me" I replied.

"You know the problem, Watson. There was absolutely no reason for Mr. White to kill himself, but no opportunities or means for the man who had every reason to hate him to perform the murder. It made no sense at all. I profited of a time our suspect was out of his home to make a little inspection there. The result was something...not a toxic something, believe me, I checked it thrice to be sure... but still something that made you and Mrs. Hudson both, once consumed, completely submitted to hypnotic suggestion. We only have to prove he slipped the substance to Mr. White and then met the man...and well, he just had to tell him to go die for the man to obey" Holmes explained.

"So you drugged the cookies and played with us" I stated. It was a thing when he drugged my dog, but this!

"I needed confirmation, Watson. Mrs. Hudson proved people could be made to act out of character – you know she's the best housewife in London – and you showed suggestion could involve potentially dangerous actions. If you combine both, you get our crime" my flatmate remarked.

"At least I got the dangerous part of it" I grumbled. Mrs. Hudson didn't need to be hurt by Holmes' carelessness.

"Your instruction has been extremely detailed, believe me, Watson" he said, once again answering my thoughts, and I could not doubt him "and if you want revenge...after we catch our man I still have my share of cookies, have I not?".

I should have remembered Sherlock Holmes is no man to ask anyone to go through something he wouldn't do himself. The only problem is the things he _would _do.


	20. Chapter 20

A.N. Prompt from cjnwriter : There's a bat loose in 221b!

Apparently Lord Hades' randomiser does like this prompt a lot – I'm pretty sure it was assigned to someone else already (I'm not checking everyone's answers to the challenge, though).

Very short, sorry about that.

Watson's journal

19 November 1896

If I ever do offer to the public the peculiar case that was brought to Holmes' attention today, I know I will omit the little accident which happened after I was back from sending the requested wire to Ferguson. I need to write it down, though, so I can forget it.

Opening our flat's door, I didn't find Holmes alone. A black, leathery intruder was in the sitting room – and my friend was waving an old copy of the Strand to keep him at a distance.

"Holmes" I inquired "what's that?".

As he is no man to state the obvious, he did not answer 'a bat'. I could see that, after all. So he replied to my unvoiced question, instead: "You always complain it's stuffy here, so I thought airing the room would be a good idea. We have gained a guest that way".

Anything could have come in, but the fact that it was that specific beast made me query: "Are you positive that new case of yours has not the slightest hint of a true preternatural problem?". I knew I was being ridiculous even while I said it, but I couldn't help myself. Bats were supposed to be a vampire's pet, after all...

"If it disturbs you so help me chase it out, Watson" Holmes retorted "and chase these illogical thoughts with it".

Between the both of us, the chiropteran was quickly driven out of our lodgings. I apologized quietly about my foolishness.

"Don't beat yourself over it, Watson" Holmes said magnanimously "I'm sure it's Doyle's influence that is ruining you. I'd advice you to cease associating with him".

"Not likely" I countered.

P.S. I had no idea what to do with the prompt...then I remembered the Adventure of the Sussex Vampire and I found my answer.


	21. Chapter 21

A.N. :Prompt coming from embracetheweird: A Christmas spent away from London

By December 1894, the (not) resurrected Holmes and I had settled again in almost the same routine we had so many years before (or not so many, but it surely felt as such). If my mother henning got slightly worse, and I did not willingly let him out of my sight for any extended period of time...well, he didn't complain.

"Mycroft insists I go home for Christmas" he said an evening, out of the blue.

"Is it that weird?" I asked.

"He requested it only because he's lazy. I'll be the one who has to answer every question, that way" Holmes grumbled.

"It's a reasonable demand" I replied. I had no idea my friend had any family beyond Mycroft, but his words clearly implied there were more relatives, and it was just odd he had apparently no contact with any of them, not before nor recently, for some much needed reassurance.

"Will you accompany me?" Holmes queried.

"Won't I be a bother?" I countered. A Christmas family reunion wasn't something to intrude upon, after all.

"Nonsense, Watson" he protested "I refuse to deal with everyone without an ally there".

So, well, what could I do but accept?

Christmas morning came and Mycroft with it (he'd decided his brother was not to be trusted, even when he agreed to be present), so in a moment we were running through the country and sooner than I thought, we arrived at Holmes' ancestral home.

There, I saw the eldest Holmes (Sherringford: their parents were evidently terrified of homonymy) and his family. Well, at least one of the brothers tolerated females...it would be too bad if the Holmes traits had no chance of being passed down at all.

Sherringford was ten years older than my friend, and looked considerably like him – or like I supposed Sherlock would be in ten years if he 'settled down' and adopted a considerably less unhealthy lifestyle. He lacked something, though, whatever it was that Sherlock and Mycroft shared: Sherringford Holmes was normal, no doubt about it. He had to be exceedingly resilient, though – he had survived his two brothers with his sanity intact, after all His wife, instead, Berenice, looked much better suited to deal with the two brothers-in-law. She was a black-haired beauty, even well inside her forties, but that was the second impression of her. The first I had was of just meeting a general, one even Sherlock did not wish to cross. The twelve years old twins completed the household (no distant relatives, thank God): John and Jacqueline, or, like they introduced themselves, Jack and Jack.

I thought I would be uncomfortable, being a stranger, but after the introductions, nobody behaved like my presence was odd – sometimes, I wondered if they noticed.

Well, not until 'uncle Lock' had been dragged away by the twins to play in the snow and I was stopped from following them by a single look of Mycroft. As usual with the Holmes, it did not go at all like I expected.

"Thank you, Doctor" Sherringford said.

"Whatever for?" I couldn't help but ask.

"Well, to begin with most of our knowledge about Sherlock comes from the Strand – with the occasional addition by Microft" the eldest Holmes explained.

"_Very _occasional" General Berenice interjected, somewhat bitterly, and I wondered if Mycroft had kept his brother's secret from the rest of the family too. The man should be made head of MI5 (if he wasn't already – I had never inquired exactly what he did in Pall Mall).

"That's not much" I replied.

"Yes" Sherringford agreed "but taking care of my little brother – that's much, and everyone in the room knows exactly how much".

"Holmes – Sherlock does not need a babysitter" I stated, instinctively defending my friend, because it was what the eldest clearly implied.

"He's still a problem child, though, and I doubt he'll ever outgrow it" Berenice claimed "frankly, I'm amazed you didn't kick his ass back to Tibet after his stunt". Definitely a soldier more than a lady, that woman.

"As if I could" I countered quietly. I'd been angry (I'm far from a saint), but the possibility of not following Sherlock again hadn't even crossed my mind. Really.

"Dear, Sherlock is not _bad_;" Sherringford protested "the point is, Doctor, we know we can trust you with him, taxing as it can be...so we just wanted to let you know your actions...hell, your existence is very much appreciated".

"You're very welcome" I answered, surprised "even if I'm afraid such trust could be misplaced". Not that I would ever willingly let him come to hurt, but how _could _they trust me when he was just back after I failed him so spectacularly in the past?

"Nonsense" Mycroft objected (and if I were a dog I'd have my tail between my legs at his iciness) "if our Lord had created someone better suited to Sherlock's needs I'd have you replaced, no matter how much he would whine. Since such a man doesn't exist, you're unfortunately stuck with him".

"Not unfortunately" I disagreed. That earned a smile from everyone.

Getting the family's blessing was, however, an emotionally draining affair, and Sherlock, back with the twins, inquired if his relatives had bitten me. Laughing with him was exactly what I needed.

The rest of Christmas was much more on the traditional – or normal – side. More playing, gift opening, and finally the Christmas lunch.

Seeing Sherlock 'stealthily' (yeah, right) moving his plate's content to Mycroft's confirmed a suspect I had always harboured. Being scolded by his sister-in-law for setting up a bad example for the children, afterwards, is something my friend knows he'll never live down.

P.S. Holmes' family is one of country squires (GREE), and a third (eldest) Holmes has been postulated since for such families the political career was common for the second child (Wiki information – I had obviously no idea). Sherringford is one of the names ACD evaluated before setting on Sherlock.


	22. Chapter 22

A. N. Beloved prompt from Ennui Enigma: Palimpsest

The word has a medical as well as forensic meaning, and yet I had to go with his original one (since it relates directly to my studies). FYI, a palimpsest is a page of an ancient book (written on parchment) whose writing has been erased before being used anew. The 'erased' text can still be determined, though...challenging as it is.

Short one, but I want it out today.

The convoluted and eerie case concerning the Baskervilles' family and legend had been recently wrapped up, every villain dead and every loose end beautifully tied up. Yet, I still had a question gnawing at my conscience. Since Holmes encourages my curiosity (it would be too hypocritical of him to do anything else) I decided to sate it.

"At the very beginning of the case, you determined the period of the document detailing the hound's tale and stated that it would be a poor expert the man who would be mistaken thereupon over a decade. I know you're a great graphologist, but I'm wondering why you saw fit to acquire such a talent or even how you managed to do it. The document was over a century old, after all, and your dealings are with the modern criminals, aren't they, Holmes?" I inquired.

"Can't you really see it, old fellow? Of course my quarry is the present-day criminal, but it is possible the motivation would lie in something long past, like some sort of claim backed up by ancient documents. I need to be able to read, recognize and examine such evidence too, or I won't get anywhere. As to the how...I told you I lived for a time more in the British Museum than in my own lodgings, didn't I? You'd be amazed at the kindness of the scholars in that place, when faced with honest eagerness to know. Not to mention it was an entertaining endeavour: some of the palimpsests held there were puzzles on their own right, when I had nothing else to dissect" my friend answered.

PS:


	23. Chapter 23

A.N. About yesterday, a correction: a palimpsest can be a single parchment reused, doesn't have to be "a page of a book", but I was unconsciously thinking of the Ambrosian Palimpsest I studied, a book with Plautus' comedies erased (well, we can still read some lines) and a part of the Old Testament written over it.

Today's prompt comes from cjnwriter : Moriarty is mobbed by a bunch of happy children.

Written from Moriarty's point of view (do let me know how I pulled it off – I have serious doubts).

Sometimes I wonder if keeping my façade is worth the effort it needs. Of course, being an highly respectable member of society has its perks. Nobody would even dream to investigate a well known maths professor for crimes ranging from smuggling and theft to the occasional murder. Or almost nobody, to be correct...but that's a problem for another time.

Unfortunately, being respectable in this era means one can't forsake his relatives permanently. At least at Christmastime, a reunion with one's family is required. Even when said family is composed of two brothers and their ever-growing households. Thankfully, our idiotic parents died already. I have no idea what possessed them. English language has a lot of names, common or peculiar enough to fit anyone's tastes. That they should stick to the same for all three of us is nothing short of dementia. Obviously I don't like family reunions. If only because, to make some sense of the thing, we stick to Jake and Jimmy and – for me – Jamie. Why _I_ was the one who got the gender ambiguous nickname is a mystery never to be solved.

And as if that wasn't enough to ensure my distaste, I'm _everyone_'s favourite uncle – and my brothers seem to know not the meaning of restraint. The bunch of my nephews and nieces could almost fill up a classroom by now, and they've clearly not been conveniently educated. I barely manage to leave my carriage, before they're all over me, clamouring for hugs, gifts and God knows what else.

One would think my career – the legitimate one, not the unlawful side-job – would be enough to instil an healthy dose of respect in these little terrors. I'm a teacher, and many of them are old enough to know what this entails. Still, nobody thinks of me as the Professor, here. I'm just 'Uncle Jamie' and extricating myself from the children to greet my brothers and sisters-in-law is beginning to look like an unattainable endeavour.

God, I miss Sebastian...


	24. Chapter 24

A.N. Prompt from embracetheweird : All the Holmes' get together to try to figure out  
what they should get for their Watson's for Christmas

I'm keeping this canon and so deleting my own Holmes from the 21 December

Holmes looks like the man who would forget the very existence of Christmas until 24 December and find himself short of a gift...but it's not only Mycroft (aka, the British Government) who is capable of planning ahead.

Hence, December 1897 had just started when the Stranger's room of club Diogenes was the stage of a brainstorming session between the Holmes brothers so as to...choose the best gift for one Dr. John Watson.

"It's exceptionally difficult" complained Sherlock.

"Come on, little brother. The man is not picky. Coming from _you_, he'll be happy with anything at all, I suspect. Even an autographed copy of one of your monographs would do. You could get at least one reader, that way" Mycroft said.

"Very funny, brother. You've nailed the problem, though. No, not my lack of a public – anything would do. Which means nothing is going to be just _perfect_. And Watson doesn't deserve anything less" Sherlock stated.

"I know, Sherlock. Believe me, I know. He endures your whims everyday, after all" Mycroft replied.

"So? Any suggestions?" the younger prodded.

"A book? He does have a certain interest in literature" Mycroft offered.

"Brilliant, brother. Really. The one gift I'd be incapable of picking on my own" Sherlock groused.

"Do forgive me, Sherlock. Since you've been educated like a gentleman, I sometimes forget you've discarded all that" his brother quietly answered.

"I've considered clothing of some sort since, well, it's not rare for something to get damaged during our work together...but I feel like that is much more Mrs. Hudson's department" Sherlock admitted, choosing not to address the jab. He had things enough to fill his head with, no need of _fiction_.

"Yes, she has probably noticed and will fix the problem" Mycroft agreed.

"Which leaves me in the same tight spot as ever" the young one sighed.

"Well, what about something for _his _work? He's dedicated enough to it" Mycroft advised.

"Yes, but – he's the doctor, My. I do have a clear enough understanding of some things..." Sherlock began.

_And a completely unhealthy lifestyle in spite of that _his brother's eyes telegraphed.

"...but I'm not sure I could find something he needs and wouldn't acquire of a better quality by himself. I'm no specialist, after all" the younger Holmes concluded.

"Actually, there's been a lucky coincidence" Mycroft recounted "I've met an Italian diplomat the other day, and as his compatriots, the man couldn't just _shut up_. During small talking, this brought to that and so on...till he told me of a man of his own town. A doctor...who, just last year, invented some sort of instrument – it looks weird, I've been told – which measures blood pressure. It could be interesting, I reckon. A new tool of the trade...and for the both of your careers, data are never in excess".

"Italy, uh? It could be arranged..." Sherlock absently wondered, already halfway through listing his contacts in the nation to see who could help him fake a case.

"Since we've solved your problem, could you throw a little information my way for the same purpose?" Mycroft queried, interrupting his reflection.

"_You_'re giving Watson a Christmas gift?" his sibling echoed, astonished.

"He's one of the few people I can stand too, brother mine, so I fail to see what's odd in that" the eldest explained.

"Right. Then ask, Mycroft" Sherlock assented.

"Does the doctor like chocolate?" the club founder inquired.

"He's partial enough to it, yes" Sherlock revealed. _So Mycroft finds Christmas gifts in his own favourite shops. Surprisingly common of him. And I thought he was just trying to get me to eat._

"Dark, white, milk? Which kind?" Mycroft questioned further. There were a lot more details he could have included, but he didn't trust his brother – for all his talents – to have observed that. Sherlock was incredibly blind about food. Such a sin.

"Dark. Definitely dark" his brother remarked.

"Thank you Sherlock. That'd be all" Mycroft said, effectively dismissing the detective.

_With paprika, _Mycroft decided. _To enjoy living with Sherlock, Watson definitely likes it spicy. _

P.S. : Scipione Riva Rocci (Italian doctor) invented in 1896 the sphygmomanometer. His first was a weird thing, made of an inkwell, copper pipe, bycicle inner tubing and mercury (and I'm not sure that was all). He's the reason you'll find RR written near your blood pressure level.


	25. Chapter 25

A.N. My Christmas gift is a prompt from Ennui Enigma (surprised?): The Sherlock Holmes's Test (infallible test for blood stains) noted in STUD.

Say thank you to the rating of this fic and to baby Jesus (I don't want to spook Him) for getting the less gory plot in my head. Short, but I hope you'll forgive me.

"Since you're going out, could you be so kind as to buy me some sodium hydroxide, Watson? My stash of it is completely depleted" Holmes asked, one windy afternoon.

"Already?" I inquired, surprised. What did he do, eat it?

"Yes, old fellow. Don't look at me like that: it's not like I murdered these people. You know the cases I've had, and I need it for my blood test, so it's not odd, is it?" Holmes explained.

"You do like that test a lot" I couldn't help but remark "sometimes...well, things are just what they look like, so it could be safe to assume, don't you think? No need of playing around".

It was meant to be good natured teasing, but the stare he levelled at me was that of the Grand Inquisitor towards a particularly unabashed heretic. Or the one I could have gotten if I had ever been idiotic enough to suggest to my superior officer it was safe to assume the weapons were loaded before engaging the enemy, instead of checking.

"It was no later than last month that we had that murdering painter, if I recall, Watson. Would you have liked me to assume things were what they looked like, then?" my friend said, challenging me.

Oh, well, if he put it like that...

"How many ounces, Holmes?" I queried meekly.

P.S. This is the Holmes blood test:

1) put in a test tube 7 ml of distilled water and add one drop of blood, then mix till you have a clear reddish liquid.

2) add one pellet of sodium hydroxide (you can use it in crystals) and mix until the crystals have dissolved and you have a dull mahogany liquid

3) rapidly add 2.5 ml of saturated ammonium sulphate and mix until you have a brownish dust precipitate

4) repeat phase 3. You're done.

I've found this information discussed by Christine L. Huber, _The Sherlock Holmes Blood Test: The Solution to a Century-old _Mystery, in _Sherlock Holmes by Gas-lamp. Highlights from the First Four Decades of The Baker Street Journal_,edited by Philip A. Shreffler, 1989. Recommended book (it's on Google Books).

And I have no idea where Holmes would buy his chemicals...I just hope he does, instead of 'borrowing' St. Barts or another laboratory's supplies.

Happy Christmas!


	26. Chapter 26

A.N. Prompt from Wordwielder: Post-Christmas depression.

Not exactly sure about the conclusion, but forgive me. I'm not so good at cheering people up (I'm usually the depressed one), so...

Holmes' point of view

The first Christmas after Watson and I had begun to share lodgings had just passed, when my flatmate's mood turned to worse. I was used to my own depressive fits, and advised Watson to just ignore me when I got like that. After all, I developed my own way of coping (even if the doctor didn't like it) and the very existence of Inspectors like Athelney Jones and Gregson was my guaranty I wouldn't get swallowed by it whole.

However, ignoring Watson's gloominess requested a considerable effort. I had no data to work with, so I had no idea how soon – if at all – this was going to vanish. It worried me. I wasn't used to worrying for another human being – not since Mycroft had carved his own niche – and it was unsettling. Or, to be more precise, I worried a lot about my clients – especially if their life was in danger and an attempt against it was foreseeable – but in such occasions I was in a flurry of activity to stop the culprit. Worrying without knowing how to help was quickly becoming unbearable, so I did the only thing I could. I set out to get more data.

"Watson" inquired I one evening "whatever is the matter, old boy?".

He tried feigning ignorance of what I was asking about. Naturally, I didn't let him such an escape.

"It's all so stupid" he finally confessed "and...petty, I guess. I had so much hope for this holiday season...I thought my friends would show up, that even if my family is gone, we could have a big celebration, like I was used to in the past...instead, almost no one contacted me. As a result, I've gone to public places, since the crowd there was better than nothing, and as a result I've wasted a lot of money. I should have known better. I'm disappointed in my so-called friends, in myself...in everything. I'm sorry if my behaviour has disturbed you".

Well, now I knew how to stop the thing from repeating itself. I wasn't exactly a social butterfly, but if all Watson wanted was having people around, I could enlist the Irregulars. He had quickly warmed up to the boys, and they liked him. Like anyone mildly compos sui, may I add. Mrs. Hudson would surely see the worth of having the house full of admittedly wild kids rather than a depressed doctor later on. As for right now...

"You didn't _disturb_ me" I stated, even if I did not say what he had truly done "but please, Watson, let the past few days go. Together with your friends, I'd advise, since that definition looks in need of a severe revision anyway. So what if you've blundered? You're human, and money can be as quick to come as it is to flee, sometimes. You could try making an hobby into a job – or side-job, in your case – if you need one. It worked well enough for me".

P.S. Compos sui is Latin, it means literally "master of one's self" but the true meaning is "of sound mind".


	27. Chapter 27

A.N. Prompt from Rockztar : the royal family requires Holmes' expertise - what happened?

First attempt at 221B genre.

It was a cold morning of mid December, when an authoritative wire was delivered at our home.

_Come now STOP MH_

Such a summon from his brother didn't allow for delay. So, we (Holmes would not leave me behind) were introduced to the elder brother's office at Whitehall.

Mycroft Holmes did not lose time in pleasantries. "This time, Sherlock, I'm not asking your help because of our diplomats' carelessness or some Government clerk's blunder. Still, the situation is probably worse. There's been a theft at the Windsor Castle" he announced.

"Windsor?" I echoed, too surprised anyone had the gall – or the ability – to try such a feat.

"Yes, Doctor" Mycroft confirmed.

"Of course, the thieves must have had accomplices inside. Not an easy thing to admit. I can see why we've been called in. Better to deal with such things quietly, right brother mine?" Sherlock stated.

"No other way of dealing with it is possible – as always" Mycroft replied.

"So, brother, will you let us know what was stolen before leading us to the crime scene, or are we meant to enjoy the suspense until then?" Sherlock queried.

His brother answered: "Do try to mind your manners from now on, Sherlock. The Queen is upset enough at losing her favourite brooch".

P.S. Victoria had the Koh-i-noor diamond mounted on a brooch she often wore. The diamond was set in a crown only after her death.


	28. Chapter 28

A. N. Prompt from Sparky Dorian : A childhood enemy comes back asking for help.

It was a cold and windy afternoon, when yet another client came searching for Holmes. This one was a bulky man, around my flatmate's age, with very light blue eyes and auburn hair. I had seen prospective clients in all degrees of distress, but this one was more awkward than anything else. He didn't even introduce himself, but instead stammered, looking down.

"Sher...Holmes, I know we've not always been in the best of terms, but...that was a long time ago, right? So, well, I hope you won't hold a grudge...we're all reasonable adults aren't we? And..." he mumbled.

"Just the facts, Brown, please" my friend interrupted him. As for me, I was doubly interested now, since it was evident that this Brown and Holmes knew each other.

"Well, things are like this...I've been receiving threatening letters, but the bastard, whoever it is, imitates my handwriting, so I'm not sure if the police would think I'm a Bedlamite..." the man revealed.

"Let me see them" Holmes requested.

"I've not brought them" was the answer.

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised" Holmes remarked dryly.

"I hoped...if you could come round...you'd see my place too and judge if it's safe, since you know about how criminals work, or...if it could be improved..." Brown admitted. He was one scared man, that's for sure.

"Allright. You've not changed address, have you? I'll come tomorrow morning" Holmes agreed.

"Not tonight?" the client queried.

"I don't see a reason to, since you haven't even been specific about these threats, or really, not even about how long this happened. If you have specific reason to fear about tonight, let me know. Otherwise, you can stay at an hotel and go back tomorrow with us" Holmes advised.

Once the man had left, I just had to ask: "Holmes, would you share when you met Brown?".

"I guess I can't keep secrets from my biographer" my friend replied "Brown and I go way back. You could call us childhood acquaintances".

"Acquaintances?" I echoed. Children don't have acquaintances, to my knowledge: they have friends (sometimes imposed by their parents), rivals, but nothing so neutral.

"Yes" he confirmed "he lived in the neighborhood, and even then wasn't all that bright. As a result, he thought that it would be easy to pick on me. He tried valiantly to, and even managed to sway most of the other children in the area. I think he regretted it even then, though".

"I don't doubt it, Holmes;" I assured "however, I'm kind of wishing we knew each other back then". The idea of 'most children' turning against him didn't sit well with me.

"Me too, Watson" Holmes agreed, surprising me "me too".


	29. Chapter 29

A.N. Prompt from MadameGiry25: Scandal Day.

To be honest, I didn't think we'd see the woman anymore (even if her postcards came somewhat regularly). Instead, 16 November 1897 brought us a charming, if unusual, visitor: Irene Norton, formerly Adler.

"Why did you come?" Holmes queried.

"Because I need help, dear, why else?" she answered with a smile "I thought I'd left all thrills and dangers behind me, deep buried, but the past won't stay past sometimes".

"It must be a true hydra you're facing, for you to require assistance" my friend remarked.

"It is. Just the way we like it, right?" she admitted with a wink.

Holmes didn't acknowledge the teasing. "I need all the information you can divulge" said he, instead.

"Later" she countered "we need to talk about my accommodation, before".

"What?" Holmes uttered, echoing my sentiment perfectly.

"Hello sweety, I'm not going back into the street, not without backup" Irene announced.

"Well, I guess Mrs. Hudson could find her a room" I proposed.

"I don't think she offers much in matters of protection. I'm not moving" she claimed.

"But...aren't you married?" I had to point out.

"Yes, and I had to leave him to deal with this. Seriously, doctor, do you think my main concern now is having a chaperone? Or decency at all?" she bit back.

"I guess not" I acknowledged.

"Mrs. Hudson will have a fit over this" Holmes complained.

"The woman puts up with holes in her walls, Holmes. I doubt she'll bat an eyelid" Irene pointed out.

"Since you are determined, you can have my room" I offered. Perhaps some would call me a pushover, but I find better not to fight lost battles. And honestly, I don't think a lady - or even an adventuress - could be subjected to Holmes' bedroom when our landlady had been banned from it weeks ago.

"I'm really, really grateful, doctor" she thanked me with all the charm she must have ensnared the king with.

"And where do you think to go, Watson?" my flatmate inquired.

Before I could answer, though, she interjected: "Don't be idiotic, boys. A whole bed is wasted on you anyway, Holmes...you both can easily fit in a bed. Trust me".

P. S. Hydra (I discovered) in English means a very complicated and persistent problem. Since I love myths, I have to say it originally indicated a multi-headed (numbers change in different versions) snake-y monster Hercules slain. Every time an head was cut off, two grew back, so Hercules had to work together with his nephew Iolaus who burned the stumps to stop the process.


	30. Chapter 30

A. N. Prompt from Spockologist: Holmes is convinced the tenants next door are spies

When the home next door got new residents, or more precisely tenants, in the guise of two young women - a blonde and a brunette - with charming smiles and bright eyes, I had been quite pleased. They were kind and prone to blushing, and I could find no fault with their presence in the neighborhood.

Holmes, however, was less enthusiastic. "I tell you, Watson" he said after a few days "these women are suspicious".

"But, Holmes" I countered "weren't you the one who admitted the weirdest and most cryptic behaviour in a woman can depend from a hairpin? Not that they look blameworthy to me".

"Of course you wouldn't notice anything wrong, old chap. But it's a ruse - a clever one. Someone decided to keep tabs on us, and sent the pair of them. You've made us known enough for them, whoever they are, to realize women make impossible for us to stop them with the usual strategies" Holmes stated.

"What evidences do you have?" I queried. I knew better than to flatly dismiss anything Holmes said, and it was true if they _were_our enemies we couldn't get rid of them like we did with many villains. Still, they looked so sweet...

"They are spying on us, Watson. It's not a chance that we meet so often, and I'm positive I've seen a spark, like the light would cause hitting a pair of opera glasses. The brunette is bolder, too - she's tried to follow us a few times, but I've managed to give her the slip" he answered.

"It certainly looks that way" I conceded "but I still think there could be a legitimate explanation for all that. I'm loath to admit they could be dangerous people".

"How do you want to clear them up?" my friend asked with a smirk.

"I'll find an excuse and visit them, to begin with. At least we'll have a few data on them" I proposed.

"No, Watson!" Holmes protested "What if they poison you?".

"If they're just spying, they won't dare to do such rash things. And even if they were more action prone than I credit them, I don't think they would try to harm me alone. You're the one any criminal should want dead, after all" I explained.

Since we shared the penchant for following just formed plans without delay, not much later I was ringing our neighbours' doorbell. I had a lesson I wouldn't soon forget. Many hours passed before I was allowed back home, and by then Holmes was evidently (however uncharacteristic of him) worried.

"I was going to storm the place in ten minutes" he stated. The prospect made me shudder.

"Thank God you didn't, old fellow. Otherwise I wouldn't have been released, I fear" I said.

"Did they threaten you? Hurt you?" my flatmate inquired.

"No, Holmes, and they aren't criminals. They're far worse...fangirls" I revealed. 

P.S. I hope you can accept my interpretation. Everyone spying on someone can loosely be called a 'spy', I think (if it isn't possible tell me). The only ideas (vague, and pitiful) I got with literal, enemy spies would entail Holmes' sanity thrown out of the window and I wanted to spare him such a thing (for now).


	31. Chapter 31

A. N. Prompt from MadameGiry25: A letter from an old acquaintance

This was already on my mind since a long time ago, so I really hope you like it. If you wonder who the sender of this letter is, re-read The Reigate Puzzle. I love that story!

And of course...Happy New Year!

Dear John,

I feel very much like a fool right now. You know I've been trying to get you to come round for some time now, and lately I became worried. Of course, you are a doctor, so it made sense that you'll be very busy - especially since I know first-hand exactly how good a doctor you are. Still, I couldn't quite believe that you hadn't a moment to spare to visit an old friend. I wondered long and hard if I had done anything to offend you in any way, but I couldn't remember any such deed, and it wasn't your style. If you were cross with me, you would have let me know - in no uncertain terms. Of that I was sure.

Only today I realized what has been stopping you. I called my butler for a trifle, and the man was quite late. Red-faced, he apologized and justified himself saying he hadn't realized I was calling at all, so enthralled was he by what he was reading. I naturally asked to see this masterpiece of literature.

You can imagine my amazement at finding one of your stories! I do not read the Strand (did not, now I definitely need to subscribe) and had no idea how thrilling your life has apparently become. I have to say the flatmate in your letters is decidedly less inhuman than the detective, and I'd complain about you keeping me in the dark if you hadn't made your foray into investigation so very public. Now I understand why Peter seemed so amused when I inquired about your address...quite hard _not_ to know it.

So, well, I'm enlightened. It looks like your life is almost more adventurous now than during the war, hence why burying yourself in the countryside is so completely unappealing. Holmes must be bewitching to be around as much as he is a handful (even in worse ways than you told me). I understand that you are reluctant to part with him. You've joined forces with Holmes in his war to crime, and you aren't one to leave a comrade behind unless forced to.

Perhaps you both could be persuaded to visit me? I can't promise I'll kill my neighbours to find him a pastime, but I can promise I won't complain about anything he could come up with or try to curb his nature. If you'd like to see me, and I haven't offended you after all, I hope you'll find the words to convince him - I'm not even sure how to begin.

Hoping to see you (at long last),

Sam Hyater


End file.
